Like burns, there are degrees of secrets. First-degree secrets are those that girls share with female friends under clouds of giggles and shushed voices, eyes bright, smiles flashing, with furtive glances to ensure that a certain boy doesn't overhear.

First-degree secrets are relatively painless, subject to no worse than blushes or easy tears depending upon if that boy does or does not return feelings of affection.
Second-degree secrets follow a person from her locker down the school halls—rolling eyes and pointed fingers marking her as surely as a painted X on her back. These secrets don’t leave scars, but injure nonetheless, deep inside where insecurities linger and fester, waiting to explode. The most serious secrets are third degree, just as third degree burns are the worst, leaving the scars, bumpy, pitted, and marred; these secrets irrevocably twist, disfigure, and ruin lives. I’ve had my share of second-degree secrets that I mostly try to ignore, but my third-degree secrets, well, those I hug to me in a fear born of basic survival instincts. My exterior is unblemished, white with blue veins, road maps traveling to foreign places beneath my skin, but inside, the terrain rises into mountains and ridges, scared, puckered, and ugly, un-crossable except by painful passage that I’m unwilling to take.